


Rent Boy Draco:  An Almost Story

by Lorraine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Death Eaters, M/M, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/pseuds/Lorraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While disguised, Harry discovers that Draco has resorted to prostitution after the war's end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rent Boy Draco:  An Almost Story

See, after the war Narcissa and Draco escape being incarcerated in Azkaban. Lucius not so much. While they get to keep the Manor and their property, the Malfoys lose all of their savings and the Manor's interior is gutted to pay for legal fees and reparations to the victims of the war. A handful of years go by in which the Malfoys are not seen in public.

Meanwhile, Harry Potter and the gang are Aurors and Unspeakables and Ministers of Magic in Training, getting their fingers all up in the political pie. They are most decidedly not giving a shit about Draco Malfoy. He doesn't even cross their minds. 

 

Harry and Ron have been attempting to infiltrate a ring of leftover Death Eaters who are murdering wizards here and there and levitating the odd Muggle from time to time. All very upsetting. So Harry's insinuated himself into the farthest outer edges of the circle ~~of the Black Thorn~~ , and he's getting invited to piddly little meetings and very, very, very paintstakingly uncovering tangential information that will surely lead to the motherlode, when he gets invited to a gathering of the middlemen. Harry Polyjuices himself up as usual and apparates to The Bloody Bucket and partakes of Madame Grossmerta's finest finger sandwiches and Firewhiskey while the Death Eaters let it slip that their bosses have something Hugely Unpleasant in the works.

Harry leans forward in his seat. This is it. He just knows it. The break in his case he's been waiting for.

Then one of the Death Eaters says, "Entertainment should be here pretty soon, yeah?"

And then Draco Malfoy tumbles out of the fireplace with panther like grace and agility. He's wearing an exquisite cloak of black and green that's fastened with a beautiful silver brooch--a relic of Middle Earth, if one subscribes to the belief that Lucius Malfoy is really Legolas's evil old uncle twice removed. Anyway, Draco throws off the cloak with a flourish and he's totally starkers underneath, buck naked and kind of glisteny, and he gets down on all fours and sort of wiggles his ass around in a way that Harry finds infinitely more upsetting than the possible imminent destruction of Muggleborn wizards. Draco is thin, thinner than he was sixth year, skinny even, but Harry is alarmed at how good he looks even so.

"Lucius Malfoy's son on his knees," one of them sneers. He pushes back his robes, unbuttons his trousers and releases his cock from undergarments Harry isn't sure have ever been washed. Draco crawls across the filthy stone floor and takes the man all the way down to the root, his cheeks hollowed and beautiful as he sucks. Draco's hard too, one pearlescent drop shining at the tip of his prick, but he doesn't touch himself. He just sucks and licks and drools around the man's disgusting cock. "You like that, don't you, slut?" the man says, yanking on Draco's hair with grubby fingers.

After that, it all goes pretty surreal for Harry. They start to fuck him, one by one, each of them slamming into Draco's ass in turn, and Draco arches his back and claws at the floor and says "yes" and "please" and "so good." The Death Eaters are rough with him. He'll have bruises tomorrow. They don't talk very nicely to him either--he's a slut or a whore or the son of a traitor. A couple of them slap Draco around, but Draco just acts like that's the hottest thing anyone's ever done to him. 

Harry can't bear to watch. Except, of course, that he does. He'd be negligent in his duties if he didn't.

And the worst thing is that nobody talks about plans anymore or lets even the slightest crumb of information slip and Harry has to watch Draco sucking and licking and grinding his ass back on everyone and listen to him moan (low in his throat, raw like something broken) and beg and pant. Harry is very put out. He's turned on and ashamed of himself for it and part of him can't help but think this is exactly what Draco deserves even though the other parts are disgusted with him for even thinking such a thing.

"Come on," one of the Death Eaters says to Harry. "We don't have him for much longer and you're going to miss your turn."

"Right," Harry says as Draco slinks over to him and thumbs open the buttons on his trousers. He slowly draws out Harry's cock and leans down his head and Harry can feel the warmth of his breath on that tender skin when the wards shimmer and then everyone is apparating away.

That night in the flat he shares with Ron, Harry jerks off viciously to the memory of Draco's ass, fucked out and wet, the tendons taut in his throat as he cried out, his hands white knuckled on someone's hips. 

The next day, Harry realizes that if Draco is whoring himself out to Death Eaters, he may have overheard information the Aurors can use, and even if he hasn't, Draco is in the perfect position to elicit said information.

Harry shows up at Malfoy Manor and the elves have to let him in. He's got a badge and everything. Draco comes sweeping down the stairs an instant later. He's wearing the same cloak from The Bloody Bucket, the same shining pendant.

"Potter," Draco says. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" He says the word pleasure like Neville says Cruciatus.

Harry says, "I know what you've been doing, and it's bloody disgusting, Malfoy, but I think I can manage not to turn you in if you'll do a favor for me."

Draco turns white and he presses his lips together so tightly that they tremble for a moment, and then he sheds that expression like the snake that he is. The echo of his knees hitting marble reverberates through the foyer. Draco reaches out an elegant hand to part Harry's robes. Harry is horrified.

"No, no, no!" Harry shouts, dragging Draco up by the armpits. "Not that kind of favor, you git. What is wrong with you?"

Draco smirks but says nothing.

"You were at that meeting at the Bloody Bucket and they all seemed to know you, so I know you've met with them before. Don't even try to deny it."

Draco's eyes narrow. "And where is your evidence that I attended such a meeting, Potter? The Bloody Bucket hardly sounds like a place patronized by Malfoys."

"I saw you. I was sitting right there," Harry says before he realizes his mistake.

Draco nods and his hands curl into fists at his sides although he doesn't seem to be conscious of the fact. "You were the fat one with the mustache. The one who just watched."

Harry can't deny it.

"I almost sucked your cock, Potter. Maybe I should be turning _you_ into the authorities."

"I was going to stop you. I was," Harry says. They both know he's lying.

Anyway, Draco agrees after a lot of threatening and posturing that frankly makes Harry a little sick at himself. He's not sixteen anymore, after all, even if his mouth seems unaware of his age when Draco's around.

Harry isn't invited to the next Death Eater meeting, but afterwards, Draco owls him to the Manor and shows him his memory of the evening in a Pensieve. Draco holds himself carefully as he escorts Harry to the study, moves a little more regally and deliberately than Harry thinks is strictly necessary given the barren nature of his home. "Prat," Harry thinks.

The Manor is almost entirely empty--room after room with no furniture, not even drapes on the bay windows or carpets on the floor. The study contains a battered desk and two rickety chairs that Harry is certain are not original to the Manor. Harry takes one, Draco takes the other, and then Harry dips his face into Draco's memory. What he sees shocks him.

The night begins much as the one at the Bloody Bucket had. Draco floos in as before and he drops his robe and makes an erotic spectacle of himself. But this time, the Death Eaters are angry. Something's happened. Something's gone wrong and they're nearly mad with desperation. One of them lands a punch on Draco's jaw and then they're all hitting Draco, kicking at him and dragging his legs apart and shoving themselves in his mouth. It's the most horrible thing Harry has ever seen. Draco doesn't fight back. He just bows his head and takes whatever they dish out.

Just when Harry is certain that they're going to kill him, Draco's body glows golden and the Death Eaters are all thrust back from him by invisible hands. A shielding charm, Harry realizes.

Draco can barely stand, but he does. "Next time, gentlemen," he says through a mouthful of blood and steps into the fireplace.

Harry pulls himself out of the memory. He doesn't know what to say. He realizes now that the way Draco has been moving means that he's hurt and trying to hide it, not pretending that he's the lord of an empty mansion.

"You've gotten a name, Potter. They were much more careless than the Dark Lord ever tolerated. You got what you came for. Now leave me the hell alone."

"Why did you let them beat you like that? I didn't mean for you to put your life in danger." Harry is more than a little appalled that Draco would think so.

Draco rolls his eyes. "Oh, please, Potter. As if I would for the likes of you." He takes a sip of the tea that has materialized while Harry was in the Penseive. Single cup, naturally. Now that Harry looks carefully, he can see a tiny bruise on the underside of Draco's jaw, what looks like fingerprints on the skin just underneath his collar. He wonders if Draco has healed himself or if he's using a concealment charm on those bits of him visible to Harry. "It's all part of the service. You saw I had a Protego in place to keep things from getting out of hand."

"They would have killed you, Malfoy. I call that out of hand. You just let them . . ." Harry trails off.

"Yes, Potter. I just let them. That's what it means to be a whore, you know. You just let them. For a fee, anyone may have Draco Malfoy for an agreed upon amount of time. In fact, I'll just let you, too, Potter." He smiles at Harry over the rim of a delicate cup emblazoned with the Malfoy crest, and Harry's belly twists with desire and shame alike.

Harry clears his throat. "Let me know when your next appointment is. I'll try to get invited this time." Maybe keep them from knocking you around so much, Harry thinks to himself.

Draco stands abruptly, tea sloshing into his saucer when he slams his cup down. "I'm not spying for you again, Potter," he says. "I'm done."

"No, you're not," Harry says. "Not if you want to stay out of Azkaban. Not if you don't want your mother to be the last Malfoy standing. I'll be waiting for your owl," Harry says as he leaves. Harry looks back over his shoulder once as he's striding down that great and empty hall. Draco has both hands planted on the desk, his head bowed. Harry refuses to think about how much he looks like the Draco Harry saw in the Pensieve.

Later that night, Harry tells Ron and the gang that he's uncovered another name in the circle of Death Eaters and they send it on to the Unspeakables to track down.

"Bloody brilliant, Harry," Ron says. "I've been working for weeks and those tossers won't tell me a damn thing."

"It wasn't anything I did," Harry says. "I just got lucky."

"Oh, Harry. You don't always have to be so modest," Hermione says.

And then Ron toasts him at the Leaky until Harry can barely stand, and when he's lying in bed, one foot on the floor to keep the room from spinning, all Harry can see is Draco's back purpled over with bruises, blood dripping down his chin and pooling in the hollow of his throat.

Harry and Ron do some Auror stuff and they catch a couple of low level bad guys, but the name Draco overheard isn't quite the big break the case needs. Draco hasn't owled and the Death Eaters haven't invited Harry to any more meetings, so Harry goes once more to Malfoy Manor.

Draco himself opens the door wearing the cloak that has taken pride of place in Harry's fantasies. Harry shoves his way in past Draco. "You haven't owled."

Draco scowls. "That's because there's nothing to owl."

"Oh."

"Yes. Oh. Now get out of my house."

Just as Draco flings open the massive front door, a house elf pops into existence and says that the mistress of the manor would like to speak with Harry Potter. Draco looks afraid for the space of several heartbeats, and then his features harden into something Harry barely recognizes. "No," he spits. "Out of the question. She's not well enough." He pushes Harry back over the threshold, hands shaking with rage. "Out! Out! Out! Out!"

Harry leaves.

He goes to a handful of Death Eater meetings, one or two of them with Ron, and Draco is not in attendance. They get a few solid leads but their ultimate target proves elusive.

Then one day, Draco owls to let him know he's been invited to entertain at seven o'clock that evening at The Corroded Cauldron in Somerset. Harry's been left off the guest list yet again, so he has the brilliant idea to visit Narcissa Malfoy in Draco's absence.

The elves open the door for him and lead him upstairs straight away. Draco's edicts must not hold water with them when he's away, Harry thinks. It's a strange walk through the long and deserted corridors to Narcissa's bedroom.

"Please, sir," the elf says to Harry as he turns the knob. "Don't tell her."

Harry can't believe the elf thinks he would really discuss Draco's sexual activites with his mother, and then he opens the door to an exquisitely furnished room. The carpets are green, thick and lush, and the windows are hung with drapes of rich black and green. A massive four poster bed dominates the room. Harry bets it's older than most of England and carved of some rare species of wood that he's never even heard of. Jewels wink from an open box on a beautifully wrought dresser, and in the middle of it all, holding court, is Narcissa Malfoy propped up on pillows and reading a leather bound book.

"Mr. Potter," she says, laying her book aside. "Do come in."

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry says and takes a seat at her bedside.

"I've been given to understand that you have visited my home twice in the last months, and I am concerned that the Ministry is once again preparing to take measures against the Malfoys."

Harry shakes his head. "Oh, no. Nothing like that." He searches for some excuse to give her that bears absolutely no relationship to, Your son is a whore and I've been using his sweet ass to wring secrets out of the remaining Death Eaters. "Draco and I met on the street," Harry says, "and it was awkward, but we found we had some things to talk about, so I've been coming around now and again. To visit." Harry can feel the tops of his ears turning red. That's the stupidest bunch of shite he's ever heard coming out of his own mouth, and surely Narcissa can hear the lie for what it is.

But she just smiles a more genuine smile than she had when he arrived and they chitchat until Draco opens the door and stops a few feet into Narcissa's bedroom, his face ugly and livid until he schools it into pleasant blankness. 

"Mr. Potter called for you, but you were out, darling," Narcissa says. "We've just been talking about the roses in the garden until your return."

"Wonderful," Draco says through gritted teeth. "Might I borrow Mr. Potter for a moment, Mother?"

"You boys go ahead." Narcissa waves languidly. "I'll be retiring for the evening soon." 

Harry kisses her cool hand and then follows Draco from the room. He waits until they've descended the first flight of stairs to ask. "What's wrong with her? And why's every room but hers completely empty?"

Draco whirls around, that same elegant cloak swishing around his calves, and slams Harry into the wall. His eyes are wild. "You had no right, Potter. None at all. I've done everything you asked of me. Everything. And this is how you repay me?" His fingers tighten convulsively around Harry's shoulders and then all the fight rushes out of him. Draco crumples to the floor, his head in his hands, his knees drawn up to his chest.

Harry sits on the bottom step. "What's wrong with her?"

"Nothing," Draco says into his knees. "Nothing physical anyway. She just decided she didn't want to get out of bed one day, and so she doesn't."

"So she hasn't left that room . . ."

"In years," Draco finishes. 

Now the elf's request makes terrible sense. "She doesn't know that the rest of the Manor is empty?"

Draco raises up. His eyes look dead. "No, and she won't, not unless you enlighten her."

"I won't say anything," Harry says. "But I don't understand. What's going on?"

"What's there to understand?" Draco says wearily. "Mother took to her bed before the Ministry began stripping us of all our assets. I . . . I don't want her to know how far we've fallen."

Harry reaches out to put a hand on Draco's shoulder and thinks the better of it. "That part I get, actually, and I think it's really decent of you to make your mom's life as good as it can be."

"Well, bloody hurrah," Draco says. "Harry Potter thinks I'm decent."

"But what I don't understand," Harry says, as if Draco hasn't spoken, "is why the Manor is so gutted in the first place. Surely the Ministry didn't take even the curtains. And I really don't understand why you're prostituting yourself out to Death Eaters."

Draco thunks his head back into the wall and sighs. "They didn't take everything, no. They completely emptied the vault at Gringotts plus the others that we'd thought were secret. They confiscated every object made with or tainted by Dark magic and liberated us of most of our more prized antiques, but the Manor was far from gutted when the Ministry was done." Draco swallows, the sound audible in the great stillness of the house. "We were left with no gold, and so I had to sell things off piece by piece until nothing was left. I spent quite a bit in the beginning on doctors for Mother before I realized that no amount of potions or charms was going to help her, you see."

"So it's just for money," Harry says. "The whoring?"

Draco looks at him as if he's suddenly sprouted a third head to go along with the second one Draco always seems to feel Harry is sporting. "Of course, it's just for money, you idiot. Do you think my life's greatest ambition is to spread it for the Dark Lord's leftovers?"

Harry says, "But surely you could do anything else."

Draco laughs and it's threaded through with something sharp and bitter. "And just where do you propose I apply for employment, Potter? The losing side does not find itself taken on at Madame Malkins."

"But," Harry says.

Draco says, "But nothing! Pansy's gone to live in America as a Muggle, if you can believe that, Goyle killed himself, and the rest of us are starving to death."

Harry blinks. "Starving?"

"Where do you think food comes from, Potter? The elves don't just magic it up. You can't transfigure food."

Suddenly everything clicks for Harry--the way Harry's never seen Draco in any other clothes but the cloak he's wearing, the single cup of tea when Narcissa must have had the only other cup and saucer Draco didn't sell, the hollows of Draco's ribs and the sharpness of his cheekbones.

"I'm," Harry begins.

Draco cuts him off. "Sorry? Don't be. Just leave, Potter. I'll show you the memory tomorrow."

Harry sees himself out.

The next day Draco comes over to Harry and Ron's (even though he would clearly rather do business with Harry at the Manor) while Ron is out with Hermione so that Harry can view Draco's memory. Harry makes sure there's food lying about--a bowl of fruit and a plate of sandwiches, a chilled pitcher of pumpkin jice.

"Dobby gets a little out of control sometimes," Harry explains. Draco raises an eyebrow like he doesn't buy that excuse in the least, but he eats up anyway.

Partway through Draco's memory, Harry pulls his face out of the pensieve and away from the arresting image of Draco's fingers buried in his own ass, sliding in and out of the dripping come of half a dozen Death Eaters. "That's it!" Harry shouts. "Draco, you're fantastic! I've got to find Ron." Harry throws on his robes and ushers Draco out the door. Draco takes the fruit bowl with him when he apparates, steadfastly refusing to look Harry in the eye.

So naturally, it's appropriate that everything goes pear shaped after that. Apparently the Death Eaters trust Draco as little as they should, and every now and again, they drop false infomration into Draco's sessions just to make certain he's not ratting them out.

"We've been set up," Ron says, kicking at a piece of rubbish on the floor of the empty warehouse.

Harry says, "I've figured that out for myself, thanks."

"What now, Harry?"

"Oh, god," Harry says. "Draco."

"Draco? What's Malfoy got to do with this?"

So then Harry has to tell Ron everything and Ron is Quite Upset with Harry especially when they apparate to a Malfoy Manor that's under attack. Some truly astounding heroics and epic duelery ensue and best of all, there's a wonderful lack of broken furniture to cast Reparo on once the battle is done. The Death Eaters never make it to the third floor and Narcissa sleeps through the whole thing. Harry is particularly fond of the way he saved both Draco and Ron's lives at the same time. For some reason he's a bit keen on impressing Draco at the moment. That probably has something to do with the way he's certain Draco will eviscerate him for putting his mother in danger once the adrenaline wears off.

Harry isn't wrong.

Shacklebolt is ecstatic with the number of Death Eaters they captured. Ron and Harry get commendations and when Harry identifies Draco as his informant (leaving out all the bits about whoring, obviously), Shacklebolt offers Draco a low level entry position in the Department of Magical Infrastructure. (Some grovelling along the order of, "I'm the Boy Who Lived and you owe me," may also have had something to do with Shacklebolt's gesture.)

Draco is begrudging and pissy and generally a dick about the whole thing, but he accepts the job and he's _good_ at it, and Harry's a little horrified to realize one day that he actually likes Draco now, that they get on pretty well. That maybe they're even friends. Draco comes over to Ron and Harry's all the time and he meets the gang after work for drinks more often than not. He's still rude and supercilious but it seems different somehow than it did when they were in school--affectionate and teasing rather than unbearably irritating.

Then Draco gets a promotion and he invites them all over to the Manor to celebrate. Draco has been very slowly replacing some of the things the Malfoys lost, but the Manor still rings with echoes. Basic necessities have to be Draco's priority after all. Everyone brings presents--Ron and Hermione give him beautiful drapes for the front parlour in green and silver damask, Neville gives him three elegant ferns in gorgeous ceramic pots that Luna made, and Harry gives him back all the Malfoy china that he'd sold (the entire set and not a scratch or chip to be had; Harry searched for two months to find all the pieces). Harry expects Draco to be too proud to accept their gifts with good grace, but he's wrong.

Astoundingly, Draco cries. Not loudly or anything. But his eyes fill with tears and his voice is thick with emotion when he says thank you to each of them and he hugs everyone, even Harry. Afterwards, Harry sticks around to help Draco put up the drapes and once they've got them hung, they step back to admire the effect.

"You know," Draco says, sidling a little closer to Harry. "I'd still just let you."

At first Harry is confused and then he remembers the conversation they had last year. "What?" Harry says, lowering his voice to a hiss. "Do you mean to tell me you're still whoring yourself around?"

Draco sighs. "No, you moron. I mean, I'd just let _you_." He takes Harry's hand, his palm warm against Harry's fingers.

 _Oh_. "Oh," Harry says.

Draco takes him upstairs to a room that's still very spartan and with the moonlight streaming through a bare window and onto the bed, he lays Harry back and peels off both their robes until they are naked together. Draco's mouth slides over Harry's neck, his shoulders, down the frets of his ribs, and this isn't like any other time Harry's ever seen Draco having sex at all because Draco is himself and he wants Harry just as much as Harry wants him. Draco's prick is hard against Harry's hip, and Harry takes its length into his hand and strokes. So that's what Draco sounds like when he means it, Harry thinks. Harry shimmies down Draco's body and takes Draco into his mouth, sucking and licking until Draco trembles beneath him. Draco's entire body clenches when he comes, his fingers digging into Harry's shoulder, his back arched inches off the mattress. And this too is something Harry has never seen, Draco in the throes of orgasm, the beautiful line of his throat extended in true passion. Harry reaches down between his legs and brings himself off in three short strokes.

Afterwards, Narcissa miraculously begins to recover. Hermione thinks possibly Sex Magic can be credited ("The sheer supernatural force of your coupling may have reached through to her on a magical level and begun to heal her illness. And the constant exposure must be doing her a world of good as well."), but Draco suspects that planning his impending marriage to Harry has more to do with it. Not to mention the fact neither Harry nor Draco plan to be the end of their bloodlines.


End file.
